


The Dead Can Live

by awriter_5



Category: The Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 01:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18622168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awriter_5/pseuds/awriter_5
Summary: Marcus's experiences as Esca's slave among the Epidaii. Sporadic. Non-linear (alternating POVs). First-person and diary-like. Writing inspired by the book; the film and my imagination. Rape is only mentioned and will not feature in future chapters; it is still included as a warning because even a mention might not be welcome.





	The Dead Can Live

No, I don’t regret it.  
How dare Marcus throw my slavery in my face after all the help I’ve given him. How dare Marcus not see that, Roman law aside, I owe him nothing. I’ve had it with Romans thinking we owe them for existing. And if I dig deeper, which I’m afraid to do, I’m more angry about the fact that Marcus called me ‘slave’.  
No, I don’t regret it.  
Even when something in his face changed when I threw him off his horse. Even when something in his face changed again when I punched him. When we saw Dergdian and my hands were still locked cruelly around his.  
I don’t regret it.  
Marcus is in the slave hut right now. It’s the middle of the night and he was exhausted the last time I saw him, so I assume he’s asleep. I assume he’s not sleeping well, if he is, as I’ve only allowed him the place furthest from the fire and coarsest, most threadbare clothing (I had to change him; his wet clothes would make him fall ill and then where would the fun be?)  
Since we arrived at the Epidaii’s territory, Marcus has been slaving (I don’t regret enjoying this pun) away. I’ve had him curry our horses; sharpen and polish the spears in our warrior’s tent (I don’t regret enjoying that he wasn’t able to use them against us); serve platters and drinking horns at the evening feast. I have lots more planned. All in good time. Don’t want to render him useless— his leg’s already been severely taxed on the journey here. We’ve had him kneel in the rain; sleep on the ground and tied to his former horse, scampering to keep up with it. If he fell and got himself dragged a bit, well.  
When I told him he’s my slave now, he looked surprised. Like he was expecting me to bail him out.  
How stupid.

\---

It’s been a week and Marcus is positively degenerating. His olive skin is sallow and pasty; his limp is much more noticeable and what must be frightful to him; his posture is all hopelessness— helpless subservience— and his eyes, when I tell him to let them meet mine, show devastation. And, possibly, hope. I tell him to look at me less often now; how dare there be hope.  
For the first time in three years, I’ve felt something close to freedom. I don’t need to intensely hate anyone or tense at footsteps. After a lot of difficulty, I’d hunt with Marcus back in Calleva and I’d always find time to be on my own; Marcus never mentioned it despite me hoping to anger him. I’d wanted to test him, too, but the reason for that shames me: I wanted to be proven right: that Marcus wouldn’t hurt me. But should I be thankful that “my master” wasn’t cruel when he could be— when he had every legal right? What would that make me?  
Marcus spared my life. I said ‘spared’, not saved. If he’d saved me, I wouldn’t have been called “slave”, would I? It was just another way for a Roman to try and conquer someone; it must have been. What does it matter that, apparently, Marcus didn’t know his uncle had bought me. I don’t know if I believe that. He made it clear enough what he thinks not too long ago.  
I’ve been wondering why he spared me ever since he did, two years ago. I’ve almost come to abandon the notion it was for a sexual intention. Almost. I asked him about it once. It was after his convalescence when his leg was almost as healed as it could be. We were in his room and I was tired of his refusal not to order me around. “Why am I here, then?” I said. It wasn’t entirely intentional. Startled, he turned to face me and after a few long moments, he said “because I saw something of myself in you”. This time I wasn’t thinking at all when, angrier, I replied “I don’t see what something broken could ever have to do with me”. Marcus’s face is always composed; always. Just a few slight movements here and there occasionally in an otherwise still face. But his eyes are always expressive, even though he’d hate to hear it. I don’t know whether to feel shame at my anger for feeling guilt at the look in his eyes when I said that. The way he is now, and the way he looked before Dergdian found us— is very similar to the way he was with me after that.  
I’ve sworn an oath of honour never to abandon Marcus, which simply means I won’t. He’ll suffer now because he has to; for his eagle, for daring to think he knows me. I won’t prolong it, though. The moment I find where the eagle is— that’s the moment we’re out of here. As much as it pains me to leave the closest thing I’ve felt to proper freedom in years.

\---

Finally I’ve gotten Dergdian to trust me with the secrets of their transition rites. But, at this point, I’m only interested in one: the eagle is with one of their neighbours. Every year, the tribes exchange the eagle for their own ceremonies. They all had a hand in the ninth’s downfall, after all. There seems to be two options now: stay until next year’s ceremony (which I admit I am tempted to do even though this means prolonging Marcus’ enslavement) or travelling to that tribe and stealing it. This second option I have no idea how to execute. How could we escape with our lives? Of course, I could lie to Marcus and say the rumour was just a rumour. But the thought of an uprising inspired by that rotten piece of metal— as Marcus had said, damn him— makes me want to help Marcus in this quest.

\---

I’ve decided nothing yet and the ceremony is only two months away. I won’t decide anything too soon, though, because I have another problem on my hands. A more pressing problem, impossibly. Marcus is sick. A marsh cold has had him laid in the slave hut for almost a week now. Weak as he’s been, I admit I’m scared for his life. And mine. How can I fight for his life and show indifference to it? But I am fighting for his life and I do show indifference for it— all while praying to every god— Roman ones and all (Marcus is Roman)— that I won’t arouse suspicion. And that Marcus will live. So far I’m arguing I’ve earned this Roman, this slave, and his death would rob me of my pleasure. That death is too good for him. And the last, most convincing: that showing him something like kindness in what could very well be his last days if he’s not aided appropriately is only going to make him more deferent and grateful to me. His master. His master’s mercy. The broken slave. It helps even more that Marcus whimpers my name in his sleep. I admit I am disgusted with myself at this, but sometimes guest laws and honour aren’t enough. I remind myself it is necessary in order for the Epidaii to spare their doctors (whose magic is, in some ways, stronger than that of the Brigantes) and resources— furs to cover him, brace his leg; water; rushlights. I never knew Marcus was afraid of the dark. The cracked pleas he can’t control make me glad the Epidaii cannot understand. Though of course they can guess. When, on rare occasions, Marcus wakes lucid but not lucid enough, it is my hand that closes around his wrist; my hand that wipes his tears back to his eyes as though I am changing this course; my hand that pets his head until he sleeps again. In peace. A small reprieve. I use the same last argument to anyone who asks. And anyone who doesn’t. 

\---

It’s been chosen for me. Marcus lives. He is better. Not fully healed, but healed enough. The fever is gone and he can stand. Even his limp is better than it was. Derdgian wants to bring me with him to the Lugi’s territory. He’s to be there for his brother’s wedding to their chieftain’s daughter. She’s already there. A double celebration, seeing as the wedding will take place before the transition rites. He’s taken a liking to me, with all the time we’ve been spending together. I’ll think of what to do about the eagle later. 

\---

I’ve had Marcus prepare my bag and our horses. There’s a general air of change and upheaval, even, that I can tell Marcus is afraid. He looks barely able to keep it together. I don’t change anything on my part, of course. If I speak to him, it’s a curt order. If I look at him because he’s in the same space, it’s as a master gauging how well the slave knows its place (I also need to gauge his mental state…). I’ve never seen anyone communicate as much in a gaze as Marcus does. He doesn’t hold his gazes for too long, most of the time. As Dergdian and I prepare to leave, the warriors offer us salutations and Liathan, Dergdian’s brother, incrementally closes the distance between himself and Marcus. Liathan likes to tease him. He knows Marcus is wary of him. It would be foolish not to be; Liathan wears the face of one who would be capable of the utmost cruelty and would strategically make it last. He’s found excuses to beat Marcus a few times; has stared him down; blocked his way and always exploits his lame leg. Always finds a way to make him use it, make it collapse. His leg’s reprieve didn’t last long. But I think what scares Marcus the most is the lewd, predatory way Liathan watches and apprehends him. Marcus has been looking in my direction for help and reassurance often when this happens… 

\---

All Liathan’s doing is helping me teach Marcus his place here as my slave. And relieving some of the rage at having been raped by a legionare once in his early youth. I know Liathan would not do the same to Marcus. Liathan is a druid; he would be cursed by the gods if he were to violate him. Not even his hatred of Romans would make him taint himself so. This and the fact I’d promised to castrate and butcher him if he would dare. “I leave rape to the Romans”, Liathan growled at my threat. “Let the master fear the threat of it, though, as we have”. I could only nod my assent. 

\---

As Dergdian and I prepare to leave, Marcus starts breathing short shallow breaths until his fear wins out and he calls my name before I can speak to him. There’s still a hint of control, but mostly it’s desperation and he looks to me for an explanation and I can tell that the terror in his eyes outweighs the hope. For the first time, I ask myself how old he says he is. All of a sudden, I am angry and I point to the community, to the place— in Liathan’s direction. I tell Marcus quickly he is to stay here until we are back but it is only when his lips part and he flinches that realise I’ve spoken to him in my language, and that he’s understood something else entirely. That I’m selling him on to Liathan while Dergdian and I leave together. He breathes harsher and shakes his head, a movement he doesn’t stop of his own accord until I shout for him to stop— this time in Roman— and he does. And then he weeps, gasps a “please”. I know I can’t correct his understanding now; it’s too late. There’s too much of an audience. I struggle to wipe the involuntary grimace of pity and guilt but that is something I can correct, so I abruptly change it to one of intense disgust. I make myself sneer at Liathan, “show him his new place”, I say and I say it in Roman because I know Liathan won’t understand. This makes Marcus take a step towards me and I know from his panic that it’s to get away from Liathan, to get to me. His source of comfort. His master. When Liathan grips his arm, Marcus screams and tries to wrench his arm away, only to double over as a sob escapes him. I nod to Liathan, then I nod to Dergdian. Dergdian doesn’t have to tell me Marcus is broken as we start our journey. I don’t have to tell myself I’ve proven that last argument I’d given the Epidaii when Marcus was sick. I think I hear Marcus crying harder, but I can’t tell properly. My focus is entirely on the burning in my abdomen and the bitterness in my throat. 

\---

I’ve found the wedding an emotional affair. Brought back memories of my brother’s wedding when he was alive. When I was alive in more ways than one. It was all very sweet. This bride had a little brother and his smile let me remember the way Marcus had smiled at me once during his covalescence. A sweet, unguarded thing of gratitude and hope. But I’m not worried for him. If I’ve had the power to break him, I also have the power to make him. When the time is right, I’ll bring him back. Now I’m thinking of something Marcus said to me once; one of the things that had made me want to protect him from harm, further harm and even myself. It was after our neighbour, Cottia, stole his book— the book he clutches, reads and brings with him to court, clutches again. He seemed to fold into himself further then and I’m constantly reminded of the strange sadness he exumes. Like he knows something we don’t. Or doesn’t know something we do. Seeing him like that had felt wrong. The way he’d struggled to use his hands. That’s one thing Marcus unwittingly reminded me of, that I had forgotten: to let someone recuperate means to let them use their hands. My brother had enough bouts of misery that I learned well. So, two days after Cottia stole it and threatened not to tell him whether she’d burned it, Marcus was sitting on his couch at the time when he’d be poring over a case on any other day. I asked him what the problem was. Of course I knew about the stolen book, but why should that have stopped him working? After a while— after he’d gotten over the surprise that I’d spoken voluntarily— he told me, hesitantly, that it was a book his father had written detailing cases, arguments, strategies, laws… his feelings. “The book reassures me”, Marcus had said in that low, deliberate voice that would be his whenever he had cause to be shy or honest. I know he rejected many other options before settling on that one. The next day, I’d let him find that book on his desk. I’d persuaded Cottia to give it back. I knew he didn’t smile randomly and, in that moment, I didn’t think his smile meant “good slave”. I admit I still don’t know whether to feel foolish or relived. Then I remember our fight.


End file.
